


The Language of Our Silences

by lightgetsin



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Domestic, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-24
Updated: 2003-09-24
Packaged: 2017-10-02 09:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightgetsin/pseuds/lightgetsin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer after season 3, and they're weirdly happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Language of Our Silences

He’s bought a lot more than he realized, and it takes Brian a panting few minutes to haul it all upstairs. When he finally gets the door open, nearly resorting to using his teeth as both hands are crammed full, he is greeted with the high decibel squealing of a happy little energizer bunny. It’s only Justin’s restraining hands that keep Gus from plowing right into his da, and damn the groceries.

“You’re late,” Justin says over Gus’s impatient babbling.

Brian shrugs as best he can. “The lines were long.”

Justin, who is crouching on the floor in order to keep hold of Gus until Brian can put everything down, smirks up at him in just _that_ way, and it’s not the ‘I want to swallow your dick down my throat’ way. Brian glares for a moment, and turns toward the kitchen. Justin restrains himself from making a crack about domestic house fags, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking it. Loudly. Brian puts away the Cheerios, the coffee, and the produce. His happiness is a subdued hum, inexplicable and inarticulate.

By the time he re-enters the living room with the toilet paper in hand, Gus has apparently lost interest in him and has settled with Justin in the middle of the floor.

“Truck,” Justin says as Brian goes to put the toilet paper away under the sink in the bathroom.

“Tuck,” Gus agrees cheerfully.

“Very good, Gus! What about this one?” He’s holding up a card for Gus, Brian sees as he comes back in. There’s a tree drawn on it, obviously in Justin’s hand.

Gus ponders it solemnly, chewing meditatively on his own fist. “Twee,” he says finally, decisively.

Brian snickers, and Justin glares.

“That’s very good, Gus,” Justin says. “Tree. There’s lasagna in the oven,” he adds to Brian. “Did you get salad fixings?” It’s the first thing he’s said directly to Brian in the ten minutes since he’s come home. He doesn’t chatter as much as he used to. Brian isn’t really sure when the change happened—there was a time when he would have to either fill Justin’s mouth or tape it closed to get him to shut up. But they’ve gone entire days without speaking, as the summer comes to a simmer around them and the money runs out.

“I got Italian dressing,” Brian says.

“Do you want to help, Gus?” Justin asks. “You can tear up the lettuce.”

Gus pulls his fist out of his mouth, interested. He likes tearing things up.

They move together into the kitchen, and Brian sits still on the steps, listening to them chattering. Justin works for a solid five minutes to get “lettuce” to come off of Gus’s clumsy tongue half right, before moving on to “carrot.” Their voices echo strangely in the loft. Brian still isn’t used to the shift in acoustics, to the new spaces in his home. He’s had some very bad moments with all the lights off at night, trying to walk around and feeling like he’s going to get lost in the middle of the empty living room.

Justin sends Gus to get him for dinner, and Brian waits patiently for him at the foot of the stairs. “Food, Da,” Gus says, plucking at the leg of his pants. “I help,” he adds proudly.

“I heard,” Brian says. He considers Gus a moment, from the Invader Zim T-shirt to the drooping shorts to his small, bare toes. Gus looks back at him, and Brian finds himself wondering what his son thinks of him, what he would say if the words matched the thoughts he can see going on in there.

“Brian?” Justin sticks his head out of the kitchen. “Did Gus get lost?”

Brian stands, lifting Gus with him. “Come on, Sonnyboy. Let’s eat.”

Justin keeps at it all through dinner, covering apparently familiar territory with “plate,” “bowl,” and “fork.” “Napkin” gives Gus some trouble, literally and verbally. Brian doesn’t say much. He wonders if its him making Justin quieter when they’re alone, and if it’s as comfortable for Justin as it is for him.

He sends Justin back into the living room to entertain Gus with a jerk of the chin and sets to work on the dishes. He’s still in there, lingering half-heartedly over the lasagna pan, when Lindsey arrives to pick up Gus.

She doesn’t stay long. The sight of the empty loft discomforts her on a very deep level, Brian knows. It shakes something settled inside her, something married with kids that has security as its top priority. She looks at Brian a little distrustfully now, as if he has somehow betrayed her. It amuses Brian to see the cards fall in everybody, to see the aftermath of elation give way to varying degrees of respect, puzzlement, and fear.

He comes out to say goodbye to Gus, who reaches his arms up to be held. Brian lifts him, wondering how much longer he will be able to easily do this. Gus smacks him wetly on the cheek and carols a merry, “Wuv you, Da!”

Brian hugs him and passes him to Lindsey, who smiles distractedly at him.

“He likes the flash cards,” Justin is saying. “But I think he’s better with hands-on. Did you know that kids his age can learn up to nine words a day? It makes sense—they have to pick up several thousand words in just a few months, but it’s still amazing.”

“He does seem to pull words from thin air,” Lindsey says, smoothing Gus’s hair. “Well, we’ve got to get going. Thanks for watching him.”

“Wuv you, Juss!” Gus adds, waving.

“Love you, Gus!” Justin returns, and they both descend into giggles.

“The play date is over, children,” Brian says, slinging an arm around Justin’s neck.

Lindsey gathers Gus’s things and hurries out, murmuring something about Mel worrying.

She leaves them standing alone in the middle of the living room, Brian’s arm still around Justin’s neck. Justin is angled slightly towards him, his head tilted back and resting on Brian’s arm. He is a line of smooth, relaxed boy against Brian’s side, and his eyes are quietly content. Over his shoulder, Brian can see the spot where his naked man used to hang. Justin had offered to reproduce him in ink, but Brian refused, preferring a small assortment of Justin’s other drawings. Justin blushed a little, agreed, and spent the next two weeks filling the walls of the loft with sketches, old and new. They make the living room a tiny bit smaller.

Justin’s arm comes around him high on his back, then slides down to circle his waist. His fingers trace the line of Brian’s side from ribs to hip, and when Brian looks at him his mouth has curved into a slow, knowing smile. Brian is hard before their lips even meet.

They take their time on the way up the stairs, filling easy minutes with the hot rasp of Justin’s tongue on his lips, and then his soft little mews as Brian sucks the pulse point in his throat. They undress unhurriedly, touching skin with long sweeps, filling their hands and mouths and senses with each other.

They fall onto the bed when they are naked, their passion a long, slow burn. There is an extended panic of need in their kisses, desperation stretched and extended into savoring. This has been the pace of their summer, the hot days alone in the loft, the slow descent from a victorious high into something else, something quieter. They fucked like mad men the night of the party, pounding each other’s bodies and screaming into each other’s mouths with fevered abandon. Justin’s hole had been bruised and red the next morning, and Brian had bent him over the edge of the bed, checking the damage and smoothing in a soothing cream. Justin had quivered beneath him, letting out his little, high-pitched sighs, and Brian had fucked him again right there, listening to Justin keen as his loosened hole worked frantically on Brian’s cock.

The sex has been changing since then, changing into this, Brian realizes as Justin gives a long, slow writhe against him. They can’t seem to stop kissing, and Brian foregoes his favorite position—Justin on his hands and knees—to take him on his back.

“I liked listening to you teaching my son to talk,” he says, wrenching his mouth away.

Justin makes a small, protesting noise, and strains up for his kisses. Brian surrenders for a moment, fucking Justin’s mouth with his tongue until his lover subsides beneath him, head arched back and mouth a swollen gape.

“I thought you would,” Justin says, and there’s a smirk in his voice. “I figured I’d better do it because God knows what you would teach him.”

Brian twists a nipple in retaliation, suddenly playful at the reminder. It had been a blushing, stammering, explosive experience, teaching and coaxing new words out of Justin. He had, in the beginning, been thoroughly taken by the idea of hearing nasty, dirty things fall from those soft lips, almost as good as sliding his cock between them and watching them work him greedily. But then something else happened, something hotwired into the nature of the thing between them, driving them to desperate heights in this very bed.

“Fuck me,” Justin whispers now, his eyes knowing. “Open my ass up and push your cock in and ride me hard. I want to feel you in my ass all day tomorrow. I want you to fuck me until you come, and then I want you to put your cock in my mouth and let me lick it clean.”

Brian goes still for a moment, even the breath stopping in his lungs. Then he is on Justin, the words igniting between them, a match to the pyre of their silences. His fingers are fumbling, working frantically at Justin’s hole, and then he’s inside, Justin’s legs wrapped high on his back, his hips working in fast counterpoint to Brian’s. Brian catches his wrists, first pinning them over Justin’s head, liking the way that makes his eyes go smoky. Then he leans further down, pressing body to body with Justin, stretching both their arms out to the sides, clasping their open palms. They watch each other, watch it building and building, kissing sloppily and panting into each other’s mouths. Justin gives those short, sharp little cries, punctuated by rushing words. His eyes and mouth speak to Brian, spilling porn and devotion in equal measure. Brian watches and listens, because no matter how mature he is growing, it is Justin’s nature to speak in these moments, and Brian’s to answer in the silences between breaths.

And then he’s going to come, and he is, long and hard, his hips jerking helplessly and his entire body flexing with the force of it. Justin takes a moment longer, then he is there too, never looking away from Brian as his untouched dick twitches between them.

They lie on their sides afterwards, their faces close enough to be able to smell the sweat on each other. The sun has gone down, and the lights are out, and they don’t speak as night descends. It occurs to Brian that Justin has not made a single worried comment about money, about credit cards or debt or the car or the loft.

They fall asleep slowly, easily, Justin first. His small, cooing snores fill the silence. Brian drifts after him, sated and oddly at ease. His low grade panic is absent in these moments. The quiet between them is too full to allow it.


End file.
